


how easy you are to need

by heavensfallingaroundus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everybody Lives, I tried fixing it alright, M/M, Mutual Pining, Warging, With A Twist, Wolf Dreams, just a lot of dreams, the Starks are Kings in the North, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23040373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: The first time it happens, it's just Grey Wind.A tale of wolves, dreams, magic, and forbidden love.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Robb Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 135





	how easy you are to need

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends. Wow, we're really doing this, aren't we? It feels so... _surreal_.  
> Bit of context to my first piece of non-RPF, if you'll indulge me.  
> I started watching Game of Thrones back in 2013, and I'm still to this day mourning the one and only Young Wolf—dumb, pretty boy who, like me, doesn't like being told what to do.  
> In the meantime, I too, like many people currently alive in the world, eventually ended up succumbing to Kit Harington's adorable puppy energy as Jon Snow, and was ultimately appalled by the conclusion to the show. I decided to re-watch it from the beginning, then, to remind myself how good it used to be. This time, my eyes were only for this pair of Northern boys, and I read it all quite differently than I had the first time round. Which, in turn, loosely translated to me realising that Kit's undeniable and self-admitted man crush on Richard (hi, yes, I told you I usually write RPF) definitely slipped into his portrayal of Jon.  
> Anyways. Rambling. Yes, hi.
> 
> This story is set in an alternate universe that I think every Stark fan would rather have existed, where everyone is alive and (almost) everything is running smoothly—replacing the absolute doom that befell our favourite Wolf Pack. For that, I guess you are welcome.
> 
> As you will discover, this was completely inspired by Hozier's [cracking tune](https://open.spotify.com/track/1bk9P03MkZzlvTH4zPaOpX?si=EaZ7IAeASreeVENndKc8_w), _It Will Come Back_ , the lyrics to which are scattered all around the text.
> 
> Last but not least, I'd like to reiterate that this is my very first attempt at both non-RPF and GoT/ASOIAF fic, and that I'm really not sure about the actual characterisation of these two, because it's also been a minute since I last read the books. So, please—be gentle with me.

_You know better babe, you know better babe  
Than to look at it, look at it like that  
You know better babe, you know better babe  
Than to talk to it, talk to it like that_

The first time it happens, the sky is cloudless and dark, and everything is still. The courtyards and the grounds of Winterfell are silent, calm, immovable. The moon is high, and it is full. Every strand of grass in the surrounding fields and every thick, humid lumber from the endless piles all around the castle is bathing in the silver sheen that she shines on all men.

The first time it happens, Jon is sleeping soundly and dreaming of running in a wood. It’s not his body he’s in, and his every sense is heightened. He’s pursuing a doe, and he can feel her desperate heartbeat, smell the earth and the snow around him, the urgency and the panic in her frantic gallop. He puts his paws in her hoof tracks, mindlessly crushing them, tracking her until he can see her again. She turns a corner and he takes a shortcut between two slender trees, and the smell of fear is stronger just then, and he knows he’s close, sprints faster, feels the hunger deep in his bones, the animal instinct taking control—

The first time it happens, there’s growling and rustling outside Jon’s door. He bolts awake before he can get his teeth in the soft flesh of the doe’s belly—but he still, surprisingly, tastes iron in his mouth. He shakes his head as he remembers it must be from the tooth that Maester Luwin took out the previous day. Nasty business.

The first time it happens, he rubs his eyes, stretches and yawns before getting up, his feet on the sheepskin rug next to his bed, then on the cold stone, sending a shudder from the tip of his toes to the roots of his hair. He starts limping towards the door, jolts of pain like shards of dragonglass through his left foot from when Theon fell on him in his full armour during their last training with Ser Rodrik.

He shivers from the cold gust coming from his window, always open a crack, and runs a hand through his hair. He turns to glance at Ghost sleeping peacefully next to the dying fire—unbothered, unfathomed mass of white fur. Also, Jon ponders, possibly the worst guard dog in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, since he’s failed to detect the potential intruder and jump to his feet to protect Jon from impending danger.

Then again, Jon realises as he opens the door, there might be a good reason for Ghost’s nonchalance—because, the first time it happens, it’s just Grey Wind.

“Hello, you,” Jon whispers, as his eyes meet the wolf’s yellow gaze, and his mouth curls up into a smile, mirroring the friendly snarl he’s learned not to fear—Jon could swear on the Warrior he’s Grey Wind’s second favourite person alive, at the moment.

After all, Jon was the one who saved him and his brothers and sisters from _a quick death_ , all those years ago. _He_ stopped that wretched Greyjoy boy from executing Father’s orders, committing a sacrilege against House Stark and effectively breaking little Bran’s heart. To this day, still one of Jon’s proudest moments. The tears of joy that wet his furs when Bran hugged him, thanking him profusely. The look on Robb’s face—

Grey Wind whines, high-pitched and demanding. From the way he’s looking at Jon, it’s pretty clear that he wants to be let in, so Jon moves out of the way and watches him make his way into his chambers. The wolf stops only briefly to nuzzle at Ghost’s side, then moving forward to bring their snouts together. Ghost opens just the one eye and growls softly hello. He then inclines his forehead and presses into Grey Wind’s, before turning around again and going back to sleep. Not remotely the kind of welcome he usually gives Grey Wind—with whom he seems to have bonded right from inside their mother’s womb, going by how eager and fond of each other’s company they usually are—but then he’s also fresh back from a harsh hunt, battered and in desperate need of rest.

Weirdly enough, though, it really doesn’t feel like Grey Wind is here for Ghost, tonight. The wolf’s stare is intense and urgent, and it’s fixed directly on Jon.

“What’s going on, lad?” he asks, sweetly, kneeling down on the stone floor to bring his face level with the wolf’s and caress his head. Grey Wind leans gently into his touch, making a contented noise. “Robb cast you out? Were you naughty again? Hmm?”

Grey Wind just rests into him more and starts wagging his tail excitedly, howling softly as he demands for harder petting. Jon indulges him, curling his fingers and scratching at the luscious fur the way he knows the wolf likes it. He’s a tough beast, a true Northern killer—but he also needs affection and care. However, he’s no Lady, with her perfectly groomed fur and her pretty bows and her cream leather collars and matching lead. He seems to prefer it when his big, fluffy mane is scruffy and unruly. He likes it a bit rough.

At some point, Grey Wind tackles him to the floor and starts licking his face, and it’s routine and it’s lovely, but it can never last too long—the wolf is way too heavy and Jon’s smallclothes are way too thin and the stone against his back and bottom is way too cold, and he would very much like not to freeze to death, if at all possible. So, Jon pushes him off and scrambles onto his feet as gracefully as he can muster, Grey Wind getting in his way as he walks back to his bed. He swiftly nestles back under his linens and pulls the thick brown sleeping furs over himself just as the weight on the too-big bed shifts like it usually does when Ghost bunks up with him—but it’s not Ghost, tonight. It’s Grey Wind, and Jon feels him crawl closer until his head is on Jon’s pillow and one of his paws is on Jon’s chest, heavy and protective.

Jon can bury his whole face into the fur of the wolf’s neck and inhale his scent deeply, then. He smells like snow and live embers, fire and ice—icy grey, red hot and unpredictable.

He smells like _Robb_.

***

_Don't let it in with no intention to keep it  
Jesus Christ, don't be kind to it  
Honey don't feed it, it will come back_

It happens four nights in a row—Jon waking with a start, paddling towards the door in just his smallclothes, letting Grey Wind in, crawling back into bed, nuzzling the wolf’s fur and falling back asleep, Robb’s scent in his nostrils and his heart glowing.

The fifth time, Jon dreams of him.

 _Robb_.

Running with him through a snowy plain, nothing but ice around them. The crisp, tangy smell of fear back where it belongs as they pursue a gargantuan, majestic male deer, winding through each other’s paths to keep the hunt exciting and unpredictable, always close together but never really in each other’s way, running, dashing—making the killing, and feasting together.

Then, the dream warps into memories.

Robb in his armour, on his horse, seven-odd years ago, as they both rode into battle behind Father to rescue Sansa from the lions. The blood spluttering from Meryn Trant’s throat all over Robb’s face, as Jon watched him personally take out their sister’s abuser. The Valyrian steel dagger Robb handed him as they were cornering Joffrey in his chambers— _do it with me, Snow_ —and how _good_ it felt to plunge the blade into the boy king’s heart alongside Robb’s, to see Joffrey draw his last breath before collapsing to the ornate tiled floor in a heap of red and gold robes, his shining crown not much good to him anymore.

Robb in Dorne, on the diplomatic trip Father sent them on, right after Stannis’s coronation, to witness Princess Myrcella’s nuptials to Trystane Martell—and escorting chariots of gold and rubies from the Red Keep, her dowry, her protection from the summer snakes of the South. Light robes on Robb, forearms exposed, silver and blue embroidered wolves all over his chest. Jon with him, black Night’s Watch armour shucked off for good after the war, replaced with charcoal grey and silver—a true Stark, now. But he knew he’d always be _Snow_ , deep down. The disgust in Doran Martell’s gaze. _Ned Stark’s bastard_. Oberyn snickering when he walked past, but also giving him the eye. _Don’t listen to them_ , Robb said. _We’re equal_. _One and the same_.

Robb, back in King’s Landing, solemnly stating he will not be marrying the exquisite Tyrell girl his mother picked out for him. Refusing to bend to customs and traditions and _politics_ , favouring his military career and drinking with his men. Only reluctantly following Theon to whorehouses in the village, and always coming back to the castle looking nothing more than red-faced and well-kissed.

And then, back in time again. Back to what feels like a hundred years earlier. Robb’s icy blue eyes on Jon that one time the King and Queen came to Winterfell. When they showered and groomed together—the way it felt to have Robb look at him that way, like he had never seen anything more beautiful. Theon was there too, of course, but then Robb made a joke about Jon’s hair and proceeded to strip. That gorgeous, lean, muscular body, sturdy-looking and unscarred, was just there for Jon to feast his eyes on, and Jon instantly forgot about Father’s ward—the omnipresent and ever-petulant pawn between Jon and Robb, constantly pulling Robb away and reminding Jon of who he is, _bastard_ , _runt of the litter_ —altogether.

It was just him and Robb left, then. Just them, naked as the day they were born, and that _thing_ between them. That forbidden _maybe_.

_Robb. Robb._

When Jon hears the rooster crowing the next morning, the name is on his lips, and his entire body is aching. It’s alive, like a tree struck by lightning, a fire raging inside him and consuming his very being. His cock is hard, painfully so, and feels wetness on his abdominals. When he raises his tunic, he groans in frustration and embarrassment—no-one is here to see the result of his wet dream about Robb, but he still feels mortified that it happened. He quickly removes his sleeping furs, seeking to lower his body temperature, and by doing so he rouses the sleeping wolf beside him. Grey Wind yawns, teeth sheathed, a hundred pearly white daggers. He then cocks his head to one side and distinctly seems to look Jon up and down. As their eyes finally meet, Jon could swear the wolf is _smiling_.

“Alright, bugger off, then,” he says, kicking himself for having the ridiculous thought that the beast could understand what just went on, but blushing furiously all the same. “You too, Ghost,” he says, seeing a mound of white fur stir in his peripheral. “Go on, go get your breakfast.”

Ghost gets up and sprints to the door, removing the lock with his snout and pulling the handle with his left paw, the way Jon taught him, then looks back and barks at Grey Wind, who hurries off the bed, kicking furs right and left in the wake of his urgency. They both scurry into the dark stone corridor, leaving Jon alone on the bed, still feeling hot and sticky, a sheen of sweat all over his body and an ache deep in his guts for—

“Good morning, Snow,” Robb’s voice calls out from somewhere in the courtyard. Like that, lightning strikes again and Jon bolts to his feet, taking the few steps that separate him from the tiny window and opening it fully. Robb is right there, standing right underneath it in the courtyard and leaning on his longsword. No-one else seems to be around. “You ‘aven’t seen Grey Wind anywhere, have ya?” Robb asks, with a smirk.

Jon leans further out of the window, runs a hand through his hair, shakes his head and smiles broadly down at Robb—desperately trying and failing to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. Hopelessly wondering how it would feel to have Robb behind him, as he’s bent over like this.

_Stop it._

“You’re too late, I’m afraid. He was here one minute ago, though,” he replies, somehow sounding way more collected than he feels.

“There? As in—your chambers?” Robb asks, surprised, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Aye, Stark. My chambers. He’s been coming ‘ere often, lately.”

“Ah, cheeky fucker. Been wondering what he was up to.”

“Taking up space on my bed, mostly.”

“Lucky bastard.”

“Who, me or him?” Jon asks, suddenly very hopeful.

“Do you even have to ask, Snow?”

Jon shakes his head and beams at him. No, he doesn’t. Because there’s no way in seven hells Robb would ever call _him_ a bastard.

***

_I know who I am when I'm alone  
Something else when I see you  
You don't understand, you should never know  
How easy you are to need_

The next night, on cue, Jon hears the familiar scratching against the door of his chambers, announcing that Grey Wind is back. It’s almost funny, how mechanical it has become to shake the sleep and the heavy furs off himself, get up, brace himself from the inevitable icy breeze coming through the crack in his window and open his door to let the wolf in. Settle into bed with him, and dream of Robb.

This time, though, it’s different. No wolves, no lions, no wars, no blood, no violence, no murder. Nothing else. No-one else.

Just Robb.

His chiselled face, and the full beard he’s grown in the past three years, refusing to shave it even for Sansa’s recent wedding to Loras Tyrell, to Lady Catelyn’s great displeasure, and to their Lord Father’s even greater amusement.

His blue gaze—that permanent, concentrated, stern frown that no-one but Jon and Grey Wind have the gift of being able to swiftly turn into a smile that brightens up even the darkest winter nights.

His curls, unruly, long, auburn, fiery. The striking grey on his quiff. The first strand appeared around Robb’s twentieth nameday, and two more years have turned it into a full streak, snow white and silver. Peculiar. Breathtakingly beautiful. Jon’s heard tales of it, even in the South—girls of marrying age and young boys yielding wooden blades saying it’s the Warrior himself who anointed Robb, dipped his sword in liquid silver and painted him, so he can blind his enemies in battle. Jon really likes those stories.

His lips. Gods, his _lips_. Permanently bloody and broken by the unkind Northern weather, but still somehow plush and dark pink, a forbidden fruit that some blessed people in Westeros have got a taste of—but, Jon’s inner voice is telling him, not _that_ many.

His chest, way broader and more imposing than it was when they were five-and-ten. The innumerable battle scars acquired in his time as Lord Eddard’s general, which Jon knows make Robb self-conscious about his appearance. He still wears them with pride, though. When the weather is kind and they bathe together in the pond next to the weirwood tree, Jon asks him how he got them. _You know already, I told you a million times_ , Robb always says. _Just once more_ , Jon always begs.

The hair on his body, dark and thick, virile. The trail from his abdominals down to—

 _Gods_ , it’s happening again. Jon’s entering the most prohibited corner of his subconscious, and he’s letting himself imagine things, running with it, running the tips of his fingers over the top of Robb’s breeches, unlacing them slowly, revealing the parts of Robb he sometimes sees, only fleetingly and only because they grew up together—because they’re _brothers_. The parts of Robb he wants to see again, in a very different light, and in a wildly different context.

A word comes to mind, then. _Kneel_. And a second one. _Worship_. Like he’s stooping in front of their tree—the one with the bleeding eyes, the same eyes that have spied on the pair of them naked so many times—praying to the Old Gods.

Then, Jon travels even further into himself, into Robb, onto him, the heat on his fingertips as he touches Robb’s hipbones, tingling, burning. The trail of darker hairs from Robb’s navel down to his crotch—and the actual fire down there, Robb’s manhood standing proud and swollen and irresistible, he’s inching closer, and he can almost taste him on his tongue, he’s going to—

Robb’s fingers in Jon’s hair, tilting his face upwards until they lock eyes and he sees Robb, and he lets himself be seen.

“Jon,” dream-Robb whispers, softly.

“Robb,” Jon replies, absolutely enthralled.

“Jon,” Robb’s voice says again—closer, this time. More tangible.

“ _Robb, Robb, Robb…_ ” he croons, desperate. Desperate for him.

He stirs, then, and Robb is gone.

Jon pats next to him on the bed, looking for the comforting beat of Grey Wind’s heart, wanting to nestle himself into the wolf’s embrace as he knows he can—but the bed is empty, save for some thick sleeping furs and an extra pillow with a few gashes on it, from the time Grey Wind got up too quickly and planted his claws into it.

Startled, he sits up and rubs his sleep-heavy eyes as he observes a strand of moonlight piercing through his window and illuminating the end of his bed. Then, he sees movement in the shadows right next to the delicate white sheen, and he turns his head to the right, squinting to let his eyes adjust.

“Hi, Snow,” Robb greets him, taking a step outside the shade and basking in the moonlight—giving Jon a mild heart attack.

“Gods, Stark,” he breathes, stunned. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Robb lets out a throaty, brazen laugh that shakes Jon to his core. He feels naked, all of a sudden.

“Came to get my damn wolf, didn’t I? Since, this time, I actually knew where to find him,” he replies, matter-of-factly. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. It’s just…” he hesitates.

“What?”

“You were saying my name. Repeating it over and over, and I… I don’t know,” Robb admits, bemused and fascinated.

Blood rushes to Jon’s cheeks, then, another instant surge of shame and unease, and he feels his whole face flushing deep scarlet.

Fuck. He was saying Robb’s name _out loud_ , and Robb just happened to be there to hear it. Gods, he’s all kinds of screwed. He tries to think of something, _anything_ to justify himself—and he comes up with absolutely nothing plausible. He decides to swing it, then.

“W-Wolf dream,” he lies. “Hadn’t had one in a while,” he shamelessly adds. _All_ he has are wolf dreams, these days. Well—those, and… “You were there. We were hunting together.”

“Oh, yeah, it _has_ been a while,” Robb agrees, seemingly unfazed by Jon’s pile of blatant fibs. An eyebrow raise, a step closer to Jon. A hand on the ornate wood at the foot of the bed. A smirk, like he knows all the secrets in the Seven Kingdoms. “Wha’ happened? Was I messing it up as usual?”

“You were the one who charged first, tackled the deer—held it down…”

“…as you went for its throat,” Rob finishes for him, finally sitting down on the end of the bed, leaning backwards onto his hands. Jon feels the weight of him—his warmth. He’s drowned by moonlight, and Jon finally sees him, all of him. The way the thin, white smallclothes cling to his muscular chest. The curve of his shoulders, those collarbones. The neck that Jon would give his life to bury himself into, kissing and biting and inhaling every bit of Robb he can take in, get drunk on his scent. “We make a good team, don’t we, Snow?”

Jon nods, curling his knees to his chest. Anything to get away from the intoxicating heat of him. He won’t let himself. Won’t let him—

“I’d say so, yes.”

“Always have, always will.” Robb says as he scoots closer, and Jon can’t get away anymore. And he doesn’t want to get away. Gods, why is this so hard? “No wonder Grey Wind likes you.”

Jon smiles at that, straining his neck to look for the wolf in the bedroom, so not used to him being less than five inches from him on the bed. He spots him immediately, on the floor, next to the dusty orange and crimson embers in the fireplace, curled up with Ghost. They sleep, peacefully, like brothers do.

“He’s always welcome, here.” _And so are you_ , Jon wants to say next. He doesn’t, but the look on Robb’s face speaks volumes all the same. Sometimes, Jon could swear that they can read each other’s thoughts. This is one of those times.

“Thank you, Snow. Feel free to chuck ‘im out whenever you’ve got company, eh?”

“As if,” Jon replies, without thinking. He sure hopes the yearning in his voice was not as palpable as he thinks it was.

Robb must know—he must know.

Jon’s never had anyone.

Robb _must_ know.

“Never say never,” Robb says, knowingly, a hand curling on Jon’s knee over the sleeping furs, cupping it and circling, caressing him delicately. “Haven’t met the right one yet, that’s all.”

 _Oh, but I have_. “Have you?”

“Pretty sure, yeah,” Robb states, confident, as his hand shifts lower, the back of long fingertips stroking up and down Jon’s clothed shin—careful, meticulous. Their eyes meet, and Jon sees it. The fire, burning blue and impossible.

It can’t possibly—

“I think I have, too,” Jon hears himself say, candid, uncontrolled, his mouth a river in flood.

 _What the fuck_.

“What’s the matter, then?” Robb asks, sounding genuinely curious. His tone a little dubious—sad? “What’s holding you back?”

_He’s the heir to the Northern throne. He’s my half-brother._

“H—” Jon starts, almost betraying himself. He quickly morphs the aspired H, that too obvious masculine pronoun into something else, saving himself. “ _It’s_ … complicated,” Jon replies, understating the reality of the situation.

 _It’s you_.

“You can tell me about it, if you want. Whenever you like,” Robb says, kindly, as his fingers snake down Jon’s shin and curl around his ankle, lingering slightly on his bare skin. A thrill of electricity, then goose bumps all over Jon’s body. Robb must feel it, because he retracts his hand.

“Thank you,” Jon replies, because he doesn’t know what else to say. But, by the gods, he knows what he _wants_ to say.

“Good night, Snow,” Robb says, getting up from the bed and turning his back on Jon. He sounds—stung. “Come, Grey Wind.”

In a flurry of white clothes and fiery hair and dark grey fur in the pale light of the moon, they’re gone, before Jon can say good night in turn. He sees Robb’s back, then the wooden door closes behind him, locking him out.

 _Come back_.

The words die in his mouth.

He doesn’t sleep a wink.

***

_Can't be unlearned  
I've known the warmth of your doorways  
Through the cold, I'll find my way back to you_

The following night, Jon jolts awake once again, with the distinctive sensation of having missed something. That nagging feeling in his stomach of being late for an important occasion.

He sits up, pats around him, panics—the bed is empty. The wolf hasn’t come. Hasn’t honoured their nightly appointment. Weird, how much that hurts. The confirmation of what he’s dreaded all day—having fucked it all up. And Grey Wind knows it, too. He’s deliberately depriving Jon of warmth, comfort, safety. Depriving him of _Robb_.

Jon is drenched in sweat from the ghastly dream he’s just awakened from. He feels like he’s been running for days, and he’s reminded of the time he did just that, when he fled Castle Black to go into battle with the Starks. Feels like he felt then. Feels like a deserter again. A stupid, green adolescent, all temper and entitlement, no mind, no brains. The Wall? Too harsh. His oath? Empty words. But also—running back to his family, fighting for the greater good. His heart pounding. That ache in his chest. _Robb_. He had to be with Robb. He had to follow him until the ends of the world.

Thin droplets of sweat adorning his brow, now, falling in his eyes. Getting caught in his thick facial hair but somehow still moistening his lips. Tiny salty diamonds on his tongue. He swallows, as he remembers. As he sees it happen again in front of his eyes, exactly like he dreamed it.

A dinner, a wedding, music, dance. Then, suddenly, the silence. Dreadful, supercharged— _loud_. Then, the blades. Daggers and swords and spears, blood and wine pooling together, staining the light stone of the dining hall. A woman crying out. A wolf growling, then whining, then falling silent. Its limp, lifeless body, pitifully swung across the hall. _Grey Wind_.

The gut-wrenching scream of a broken man. _Robb_. Falling to his knees in front of the wolf, wrath and grief glowing red and black. The axe swung in front of him, cutting Grey Wind’s head clean off. Another howl of pain. Daggers to Robb’s back—three, five, ten, gilded hilts glimmering in the orange candlelight of the darkened hall. More blood, more shrieks of horror.

Robb collapsing onto his front, his face in Grey Wind’s fur.

The fire in him dying.

It takes Jon a long while to convince himself that it wasn’t real, that it was all a product of his way-too-vivid imagination, twisted memories of the way-too-much blood he’s seen in his time. He groans, hugging his knees and crying in leftover shock.

Ghost jumps on the bed next to him, nuzzles his neck, licks salty tears and tangy perspiration off his face. Grounds him, brings him back to the present.

 _You’re okay_ , the wolf seems to tell him. Rough tongue, glowing red eyes. _You’re alright._

And it’s absolutely true. They _are_ alright. They _are_ alive, they _are_ thriving. They’re Kings in the bleeding North. The pack. It’s like Father always says— _the pack survives_.

Jon hugs Ghost tight, grateful. A few more tears fall down his face, but these taste somehow sweeter. He thanks Ghost out loud, tells him he’s a good boy, the best—because it’s true.

His heart is full, but the throbbing apprehension his dream has left in him is still there somehow, gnawing away at his insides. Not a wolf, but a hungry lion, like the ones they killed years ago. This one has the face of Tywin Lannister. He knows that Tywin Lannister is dead, as is practically all of his spawn—but he can’t help wondering whether a new one might come, one day. A new Tywin. A new threat. A new obstacle. Someone that could put Robb in danger. Someone, _something_ way worse than Tywin fucking Lannister and his gold-filled stools.

Some of the blokes told Jon stories, back at Castle Black. Blue eyes. Dead, but very much alive.

Unstoppable.

Jon didn’t believe them, at first. Years passed, and he thought he was right. Then, recently, they started getting more and more ravens carrying messages about how perhaps those tales were not fabrications after all. Lord Eddard sent men to the Wall, beyond the Wall, in hope of stifling the rumours, getting some kind of tangible proof. Hard facts, that’s what Father likes.

The men never came back.

It’s been eight days since the last raven. Seven nights since Grey Wind first showed up in front of his door.

Gods, Jon’s so _slow_ sometimes.

Understanding and resolution hit him, then. A blow on the back of his head. He jumps to his feet, flies across the room, then stills in front of the door and catches his breath. Sharp, night air tingling his nostrils, filling his lungs, cooling him right down. Hot air from his mouth blowing out a visible cloud of condensation.

He’s decided. He’s going to. He’s going to _tell him_. He can’t let another day, another night pass without him knowing. In case the Others do come. If he is right, and Robb does reciprocate his feelings—he needs the time. _They_ need the time. Time to _live_.

Jon flings his door open. Something moves in the shadows, barely visible in the murky light of the dying torches in the corridor. Jon’s heart jumps when the thing takes a step forward, towards him.

Jon sees him. Grey Wind, sitting on his haunches, head cocked to one side. He’s just there—unapologetic, staring up at Jon like he’s not kept him waiting all night.

There’s something queer about him, though. Jon can clearly tell.

He ponders for a beat, teeth pulling on his bottom lip. Then, it clicks. So obvious, so mesmerising.

His eyes. His _eyes_ are different.

Blue. A shade that Jon’s seen before.

Blue. The sky over Dorne. The Narrow Sea.

Blue. A clear, crisp winter day. The snow, covering the castle grounds. Snow is never _really_ white.

Blue. Gold-rimmed irises. Sunny, warm. A summer day.

Blue.

 _Robb_.

Jon falls asleep with the name on his lips, the wolf’s heart beating against his chest. Thumping in unison. A marching band. A celebration.

A promise.

***

_I want you baby tonight, as sure as you're born_   
_You'll hear me howling outside your door_   
_Don't you hear me howling, babe?_

A soft knock on Jon’s door, the following night. No rasping, growling, whining. Actual knuckles, on actual hard wood.

Jon’s definitely not sleeping. Since Grey Wind left him in the morning, trotting outside his chambers behind Ghost—since that last blue look the wolf gave him before his eyes glazed and turned yellow once again, Jon’s been on edge. All day, constantly, incessantly.

An almost unbearable fluttering in his stomach, taking control of his wits. Dark ravens. Snowy butterflies. A hurricane, swirling around inside him. It hit him in waves. Sometimes dormant—when he was alone—sometimes quite frantic, uncontrollable—when Robb looked at him across the dinner table. The way his lips parted slightly, like an offering. Bottom lip wet, pink, stained dark crimson where some wretched old drunk broke it in a fistfight down at the village. Blood smeared across, colouring the thumb that he skimmed over the cut, cherry, burgundy, the richest red wine Jon could ever imagine tasting. A single drop on the immaculate porcelain plate in front of him. A ruby from Asshai.

They don’t talk, at first.

Jon opens his door, looks at Robb, and just _thinks_ it. Very hard. Hopefully, loud enough.

 _I’ve never opened up, not to anyone, not ever. With you, however, I feel like I can come out of my shell. It’s just easy._ You _’re so easy. To follow. To worship. To adore. To love. I don’t want to live, if it’s not with you._

Jon almost doesn’t register Robb stepping in the room, slamming the door, and pressing him gently into the sturdy oak of the frame. One hand on Jon’s waist, thumb softly nipping at his hipbone—the other, on Jon’s jaw, thumb lightly stroking his cheekbone.

“I love you,” Robb breathes shakily. Close, so close. Something balmy on his breath, Jon can smell it. Warm, so warm. A pool of sunlight. Jon wants to bathe in it—in him. “I’ve always loved you. I’ve never wanted anybody else. Just you, Jon. _You_.”

The blue is stripping Jon bare, exposing every inch of his soul—blood flowing hot and red, heart pulsating, muscles tensing, naked, he’s naked, he’s transparent, an open book, and he’s letting Robb read the entire history of him.

“I…” he starts. A knot in his throat silences him. He unravels it, fights the foolish fear of letting loose in front of the man who understands him better than anyone else in the world. The man who sees him, who knows everything there is to know. Well, except one thing, maybe. “Robb, I…” Chest heaving, blood rushing to his cheeks. Two-and-twenty, but still a hopeless, green boy. _I love you_. _By the gods, just say it_.

“I know,” Robb says, before Jon can find his voice again. “I know. I know you do. We ran together enough times in the past fortnight.” Jon watches Robb’s lips moving, shaping the words that he can’t get out on his own. Orange and blue light dancing on his face, the cut on his bottom lip glistening crimson. “Whispering in your dreams. You told me already. I heard you.” The fiery hue of his beard. His eyes.

His _eyes._

Looking deep into Jon’s soul, flicking the pages. Reading. Bitter, lonesome nights at Castle Black, yearning for home. Scalding, parched days in the Dornish desert, Robb’s arms peeking out of that embroidered tunic.

His eyes.

Jon understands, now.

“It was you every time, wasn’t it? Not just last night?”

“I’d waited so long, Snow. And I was going mad. I _needed_ to know. So, I let Grey do the heavy lifting, at first. Thought I could resist, I really did…” Robb pauses, licks his lips. Tongue like a ripe, juicy strawberry. He flinches slightly when it goes over the nasty, cherry gash. “I fell apart on the second night. Waited for you to drift off. Then, I warged him. Watched you sleep. You were so beautiful. I couldn’t stop. I even sneaked into your dreams, when I could. I didn’t even know I could do that.” He pauses again. Hands to his face, covering his eyes. He shakes his head and groans, softly. “Gods, I sound like a fool, now, don’t I? A fool, and a _freak_.”

“You don’t, Robb—"

“I just wanted _you_ , Jon,” Robb says, hastily, low, hushed. So close—he’s _so close_. “Anything I could do to be with you. Ten years. I’ve loved you for _ten years_. I wanted you, just you, no-one else—and I knew I couldn’t have you, not ever.” His voice breaks, and he leans his forehead against Jon’s, closing his eyes. Jon sees a single tear escape the thick, dark knit of his lashes. “But then, when that raven came, nine days ago—”

Gods. Jon was right.

White Walkers. Fatal danger, knocking on their door.

_But first, we’ll live._

Jon lets his hands flow upwards, the booming beat of Robb’s heart underneath his palms replaced by the soft hairs on Robb’s cheeks, rough fingertips digging in seeking the warmth underneath.

He finally feels it, then. The stream, bubbling in his throat, eager to overspill the confines of his lips. All of a sudden, his mouth is full of words.

“I love you, Robb. I don’t care about anything else. The Others can freeze the world over. Dragons can burn the Seven Kingdoms to ashes. Nothing will change this—my heart is yours. _I_ am yours.”

The light scratching on Jon’s hands as Robb’s face moves, morphs like soft clay under his touch.

The moonlight gleam of Robb’s smile, pearly white. Breathtaking.

The back of Jon’s head pressed against the oak frame, and Robb’s lips on his—soft, pliant, exploring. Then, Robb’s tongue teasing at the seam of their kiss, tentative but fierce. A deep sigh ripping through Jon, starting low in his belly and lifting his whole body up, up and towards Robb, falling into him as they melt into each other.

Sweet summer wine, the way he tastes. Honey and elderflower.

The light tang of iron, when the tip of Jon’s tongue grazes his wound. A sword in the night.

The battle they engage in, lips and teeth and roaming hands over thin white linen garments. Skin on skin, then—scars and bruises on show, purple and red and yellow, some fresh, some darkened by time. _Beautiful, he’s so beautiful._

Bodies pressed together, never close enough, as they stumble across the room, their mouths never leaving each other. No need for oxygen—they’re breathing each other in.

Their yearning blood-red, roaring like a pyre.

Their passion bright green—wildfire, exploding, annihilating everything around them.

Jon’s bare back hitting the bed, and Robb climbing on top of him, and the look in his eyes. Like he can’t believe what he’s witnessing, what is happening, what they’re finally doing.

“Are we dreaming again, Snow?”

“Feels like it, dunnit?” Jon replies, glancing at the curve of Robb’s shoulders, the auburn hair framing his face. That streak of moonlight above his brow. “Also feels very real.”

Robb kisses him, deep and hungry, pressing their chests, abdomens and crotches together, blazing flames licking at Jon’s insides as he feels Robb’s hardness against his own. Jon growls, deep, low, wolf-like, and Robb echoes him, desperate, tearing him apart. Robb’s hands float on top of Jon—arms, fingers, chest, hips, ink-black curls going from his navel to his crotch, feather-like over Jon’s erection. Jon hisses, jolts of desperate need threatening to make him fall apart prematurely.

Jon also touches Robb, gets to know him all over again. The thick hair on his chest, his neck, the muscles on his back, ripples of mighty flesh ridged with scar tissue—spiderwebs under his digits. Closer, Jon needs him closer, so his hands can fly further south, on the dimples at the bottom of Robb’s spine, the swell of his glutes—gods, he needs it, needs _him_. Like a blind man, seeing for the first time.

The first time.

“Robb,” Jon sighs, whining as Robb presses their bodies flush against each other once again, feels himself leaking onto his belly, onto Robb’s skin. Robb kisses his collarbone, moves to his neck, his jaw, soft, comforting. He finally lifts himself up, so that their faces are at level, and he meets Jon’s gaze. Dark, glossy pupils swallowing the sea of his irises.

“Jon,” he replies, smiling, a smitten look on his face. “Are you alright?”

“Gods, yes. Perfect. Just…” Jon stutters, making a quick work of swallowing the lump in his throat. Robb runs a comforting thumb across his cheek. He breathes in, then out. “There’s never been anyone. I’ve never…”

Robb grins as he frames Jon’s head with both hands and presses a firm, loving peck to his lips. “Snow,” he murmurs against them. “It’s all good. We can do whatever you want. We can take it slow. We don’t have to—”

“No,” Jon interrupts him, urgent, vehement. He pulls Robb closer, looks for his lips and finds them once again. Honey and elderflower. “No, I want it. I want _you_.” _All of you_.

Sunshine happiness beaming from Robb’s face. Low moans escaping both their lips as they fuse into one, tongues exploring, languid and deep.

“Let me take care of you first, Snow. I promise, I’ll make it good for you. Do you trust me?”

Jon nods, resisting the urge to pinch himself.

_Not a dream._

Robb’s hands gently push Jon’s arms over his head, then, and Jon yields, surrenders to him, liquid silver arousal running through his veins, wrists together, in anticipation of some kind of sweet torture.

Robb hovers over Jon, leaving a descending trail of butterfly kisses on his neck, collarbones, chest, abdominals, hipbones, and finally settling between Jon’s legs, nuzzling his curls, then pressing his lips all around Jon’s throbbing erection but never directly on it, barely grazing it with his warm breath. Arms hooking underneath Jon’s thighs, holding him fast and steady. Iron grip on Jon’s pale skin. His gaze like the Shivering Sea, sending chills down Jon’s spine. Auburn curls, bathed in moonlight. Fire and ice.

Then, Robb takes Jon in his mouth. Aching, leaking shaft disappearing over the edge of those cherry lips, strawberry tongue wrapping around it—hot, wet perfection, like Jon could never have fathomed, not even in his wildest dreams.

It only takes a few heartbeats. Jon’s eyes fall shut and he arches his back, waves of pleasure rushing through him as Robb works him in and out, up and down, deep, into the back of his throat, then frees him, places an open-mouthed kiss to the tip, _so beautiful, gods, Jon, you’re so beautiful_. At that, Jon’s hips start moving of their own free will, rocking into Robb’s miraculous heat, irrepressible need flooding his groin, a familiar tingling all over. His skin prickling. Even the tips of his fingers are alive, tangled in Robb’s hair, scratching at his scalp, _please, please_ , a litany, a prayer.

Every bit of Jon screaming for more, more of Robb, deeper, oh, _gods_ —

“Robb,” Jon hopelessly cries out. He feels it creeping up, the sensation he’s only known during lonely nights in his chambers, his hands as his sole relief, and in his most vivid dreams, from which he always wakes up flustered and embarrassed. It’s oh so different, now. It’s quicker, the build-up—like rainclouds crowding over an open field, thick and inevitable.

He knows it’s coming.

He forces himself to raise his head from the pillow he’s been digging his teeth into. Looks down at him. “ _Please_ , Robb, I’m—”

Robb just hums around his mouthful and takes Jon in deeper, cheeks hollowed and fingernails biting crescent moons in the porcelain skin of his thighs.

 _It’s okay_ , Robb’s saying. _I’ve got you_.

Jon’s hips stutter, unhinged, and buck into Robb, desperate. Jon feels like he’s being split in two and his whole being is flowing into Robb as he hits the back of his throat once, twice, three times, each brush a lightning strike and a clap of thunder echoing inside him. Then, it’s there. Jon tugs on Robb’s curls—more thunder, Robb’s keen groans all around him—just as a summer storm, hot and sudden, crushes him completely. He basks in it, lets it wash over him, cleanse him, placate the decades-long thirst that he never thought he would be allowed to quench.

All the white light behind Jon’s eyes makes him black out—he’s overstimulated, annihilated. He collapses on his pillow, then, blinded. One hand clenched on the soft linens covering his mattress, the other fisted in Robb’s hair, pulling involuntarily hard at those perfect locks, the ones he’s only observed from a respectable distance for over twenty years—and now they’re here, tangled around his fingers—and, gods, the mere _idea_ of what has just happened, what is happening now, what will potentially be happening over and over, threatens to make him lose it all over again.

When he opens his eyes again, Robb is lying next to him. Hand on Jon’s forehead, drying sweat from his brow, cool, comforting.

A rush of blood to Jon’s cheeks, the high of his orgasm still ringing in his head. He realises how quick and underwhelming that must have been for Robb. He fears he just ruined it—got way too easily vanquished by desire and the promise of fulfilment. Relinquished his wits and self-control, let them turn into liquid pleasure. Let his wildly inexperienced body get the better of him.

“S-sorry,” he babbles. “I didn’t mean… I couldn’t…”

“What are you on about, Snow?” Robb murmurs, taking Jon’s face in his hands and looking absolutely adoringly down at him. “I wanted you to. Wanted to make you feel good.”

“But you… You didn’t…” Jon starts again, still mortified.

“Oh, gods, Snow, I don’t need to. Not always—not _now_. Just… tasting you on my tongue,” he says, punctuating himself with a longing kiss on Jon’s lips. “Listening to the small noises you made, feeling you writhe under my touch. Seven hells, simply _looking_ at you while it was happening was enough to make me the happiest man to ever have lived. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful in my life.”

Relief and utter, unashamed happiness flood through Jon. Emboldened, he lets his love shine through his smile and the umpteenth passionate kiss he pulls Robb in for.

“I still want you, though,” he hears himself say, as he nibbles on Robb’s bottom lip.

Robb scrunches his nose up and playfully growls at him. Wind blowing the ash off the embers of his arousal, Jon's words like timber, rekindling his fire. A wolfish grin, the black of his pupils—lust incarnated.

They make love. Robb leisurely opening Jon up, slow and tender, then filling him to the brim, taking his pain and replacing it with pure, unadulterated pleasure. They spend all night thrusting in and out of each other, a symphony of pleas and moans, teeth digging into skin and muscles clenching, strained, chasing release, flying higher and higher, until they touch the sky.

They fall back down, then, lying together, tangled, one body, one soul, until the sun rises on Winterfell—on Robb, his immaculate, freckled skin glowing golden in the light of the morning. His arm swung across Jon middle, his chest heaving softly as he slumbers, peaceful and spent. The feel of him on Jon’s skin, inside and out.

A new day, a new beginning.

 _Let the Others come_ , Jon thinks. _But first, we’ll live._

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, me again. If you got to the end of this, thank you very much for reading.  
> If you enjoyed it, please consider dropping me comments and/or kudos, which are effectively the air I breathe, and please let me know whether this maybe deserves a part 2.  
> Lastly, if you like the idea of these two men together and if you, like me, are in love with both Richard and Kit and would be partial to seeing them smooch IRL, I have a little [series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631494) going on that you might want to check out.  
> If you'd like to chat about literally anything, you can find me on Tumblr, I'm @applesfallingfromblondehair over there ;)  
> As usual, thank you so much for reading.  
> See you very soon,  
> C x


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